The Fuchsia Dark Lord Paradox
by Sylvan
Summary: Collaborative with Keeper of Shattered Mirrors and Absentia. A printing accident lands a pink Magus in the middle of the lives of three fanfiction writers.
1. Prologue

Keeper of Shattered Mirrors and I collaborated to come up with this piece. I did most of the writing, but a whole lot of discussing decided the events. Absentia lended a helping hand, as well, later on.Most stuff is based off of real life situations and discussions, particularly this prologue. It's amazing what a handful of bored teenagers can create. Reading this story requires a high school reading level. Sorry! Please, enjoy!

Prologue

Mirrors sat at her computer desk, giddy with excitement, sleep deprivation, and far too much sugar. A fan art of the Dark Lord Magus stretched across her computer screen, his exquisite, ivory face turned toward a mist-shrouded moon. She leaned over the printer, which sat beside the monitor, gripping the sides of the machine that seemed to inch a long pixel by pixel. "Print, curse you! Print! Worthless, vile, printing… thing!"

Giving up on physically _willing_ the device to work faster, she sat back in her chair, reaching for her cup – an old mason jar, which theoretically held blue Kool-Aid. But as fate would have it, at that moment, Kool-Aid had chosen to forsake our good friend. She took the opportunity to glare suspiciously at the glass object before springing out of her chair and shuffling off into the kitchen.

Unhappily, upon peering into the chilly abyss that was her refrigerator, she found that the pitcher which had contained the tasty liquid sat empty, having been left by some lackadaisical younger sibling. "I'll kill them," she muttered, removing the offending container. Turning instead toward the pantry, she began searching for a package of the blue, powdery substance. "My kingdom for some Kool-Aid!" This trade would, of course, have been a very fair one, as nineteen-year-old college girls rarely own anything more valuable than Kool-Aid or ramen.

Alas, while the pantry contained many a good thing – such as breakfast cereal, which is tasty but does not satisfy the needs of Kool-Aid – it was without both Kool-Aid powder and sugar, and to make Kool-Aid san powder and sugar is to make water. It was thus mourning her plight that Mirrors chose to call her good friend – and least-hated blonde – Sylvan. Drawing her cell phone of decrepit signal from her pocket, she scrolled mightily through all the worthless numbers until she located her ally.

Of course, being that her signal was ever a decrepit one, she had to first lean slightly to the left and balance on her right foot. Thus, she triumphantly dialed the call button, and the wavering, static-infested ring rang forth to contact her good friend.

"Hello?" a heroically groggy voice answered the call. As her sixth sense always did allow, Mirrors had managed to predict the time when her ally was most definitely asleep. Such abilities, of course, only develop through years of good friendship and much pestering.

"Syyy-y-y-y-y-y-y-yl-va-aan," she called, invoking her ability to stretch a two syllable word into ten.

"Huh?... Wha…? Yeah?" Sylvan's powers of articulation never cease to amaze.

"I'm out of Kool-Aid! Come get some more with me!"

"Yeah… Okay. Just let me get some clothes on." Because clothes are of great importance and appearing without them most often results in legal action.

Thus, the quest for Kool-Aid was decided, but before she could set out, Mirrors recalled the most important fan art which she had been printing before the quandary of the Kool-Aid powder forced itself upon her. Returning quickly to her printer, she discovered that the most desired picture had printed itself, but further inspection revealed a striking error on the part of the so vile and conniving machine. Yea, the Dark Lord stood, in all his glory, a most obvious shade of fuchsia. In agony did our heroine cry out, "Mom! Why is the Dark Lord _pink_!"


	2. The Warning

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

In a brief summary of the contents of this story, we've (and when I say "we," I mean myself, the Keeper of Shattered Mirrors, and Absentia) taken a true past experience – a printer spitting out a pink Magus – and explored the potential complications, albeit there's absolutely no scientific basis for any of this nonsense. So, while reading this particular fanfic, realize that we are writing about Magus as he would handle the idea of being pink and understand that we are writing about ourselves as we behave in our daily lives. We're not censoring our oddball behavior, colorful language, or generally offensive sense of humor. If you want to read something sensitive and censored, read a story about bunnies. That's right. Bunnies are nice. Bunnies are friendly. Bunnies are politically correct. Enjoy your commie bastard bunnies.

Beyond that, we'd like to give a proper heads-up (and therefore avoid the legal complications) about what sort of offensive material you may observe in reading this fic.

If you are Black, White, Native American, Asian, Pacific Islander, Middle Eastern, Hispanic, Mixed, Confused, or in the dark, if you are Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, Muslim, Mormon, Shinto, Pagan, Agnostic, Atheist, Unitarian, or just plain have any view theologically or philosophically whatsoever, if you are straight, gay, bi, or asexual, if you are male, female, neither, or both, if you've ever had a sex change, if you've ever been mistaken for a different sex, if you are conservative, liberal, moderate, libertarian, apathetic, or confused by these terms, if you are alive, if you are dead, if you have ever faked your death or life, or if you've ever wished to be any or do any of the above,

if you are rich, if you are poor, if you are middle classed, if the IRS will never find you, if you are homeless, if you live in an apartment complex, if you have scary neighbors, if your roommates are scary neighbors, if you are a scary neighbor, if you are scary, if you like to pretend you're scary, if you are Goth, Punk, Skater, Emo, Prep, Jock, Nerd, Thug, Gangsta, Loner, or if you actually have a life, if you are or have ever been in public school, private school, reform school, have dropped out of school, have a GED, or attended any form of college, graduate or technical school, or if you would never be caught dead inside a school, if the dean takes all your money, if the government gives you money, if you have a job, if you have ever worked in a department store, bookstore, or in the food service industry, if you are jobless, if you are a welfare junky,

if you read or write or if you are illiterate, if you like fanfiction, if you hate fanfiction, if you've ever visited fanfiction(dot)net, if you are a fangirl, fanboy, hate fangirls and fanboys, love fangirls and fanboys, or if you don't know what we're talking about, if you like yaoi, hate yaoi, if you've written yaoi, if you've flamed yaoi, particularly if you've flamed yaoi – or any story for that matter – and misspelled your complaints, if you like Marysues, hate Marysues, have written Marysues, have ever launched a campaign against Marysues, are a Marysue,

if you like any shade of pink, white, or blue, or lightish red for that matter, if you are a Halo fan, if you hate Halo, if you like Red vs. Blue, if you're unfamiliar with Red vs. Blue, if you think Red vs. Blue is blasphemy against the video game universe,

if you like animals, hate animals, are a vegetarian, a vegan, a carnivore, omnivore, if you eat by osmosis, if you own a pet of any form or fashion, particularly if aforementioned pet is a pet rock, if you are member of PETA,

if you have dedicated your life to the preservation of the marmoset, we would like to inform you that marmosets are extremely tasty with ketchup and that we've offended absolutely everyone on all planes of existence and non-existence.

Furthermore, if you have ever been amused by the concepts of detached retinas, mass murder, baby angels bursting into flames, baby shaking, Jew-killing, puppy kicking, and random acts of violence and/or God(s), if you have ever laughed at the idea of acid being sprayed in the faces of the elderly, if you have ever heard the term "angry vagina" and thought it was the funniest shit ever, if arson is an enjoyable past time to you, we'd like to extend an invitation to join the club.

Now, those of you who can swallow your pride and laugh at yourselves and everyone around you, regardless of how distasteful the humor, prepare to be entertained.

Be aware that you may wish to summon a lawyer before preceding and therefore signing the contract.

Print Name:

Sign Name:

(The above agrees to forfeit his or her soul.)

Thank you for your patronage! We value your business!


	3. Chapter One Paradox Backlash

Author's Note: I realized upon re-reading this chapter that stuff seems to roll one after the other – which I suppose is about how things go in real life for the three of us. So, yes, if things seem random, rest assured that we're just like everybody else – with much more screaming and insanity. Regardless, lots of the wild behavior could be blamed on the novelty of the situation. As we adjust, we'll calm down – thus becoming far more calculating.

Disclaimer: If you've ever wondered why Square-Enix and Capcom refuse to give me the rights to Chrono Trigger, wonder no more.

Chapter One

_In which our heroines come into possession of a Magus_

Paradox Backlash

"A pink Magus? Ha! The paradox backlash from that bitch would rip a hole in the space-time continuum and crush your very being!" Sylvan's knowledge of the RPG Mage is, indeed, unmatched by the rest of female kind, and she saw fit to impart knowledge of such concepts to her valiant friend as they traveled through the Mart of Walls, known to the people as "Wal-mart." The mighty aisles spread on endlessly, lined with the discounted goods that so many covet and traversed by many a Mexican. "You realize, now, that any natural disasters that occur over the next couple of weeks are entirely your fault."

Sylvan was, indeed, a sight to behold amongst the throngs – a blonde with eyes of a strangely yellow, blue-ish hue and skin of an ominous yellow cast for one so fair of coloring. Yea, the people of this fair Wal-mart often mistake our Slavic Eurasian for a White Cuban who suffers from jaundice.

The mouth of Mirrors pursed expertly into a pout, accented astoundingly by the deep rosy color of her lips and the paleness of her skin. Yea, our heroine is, too, an oddity amidst the White folk and under-grown Latinos. Never has any seen such an ivory complexion on one whose father's fathers hailed from the legendary Black Continent. So fair was her skin that Sylvan and company have long since seen fit to dub her "the pasty mulatto." "You're so mean to me." The accusation rang a mighty squeak.

"Awww, squeaky Mirrors!" Sylvan ran her golden fingers through Mirror's legendary black ringlets, threatening to disarray the ill-tempered gods of mixed hair.

Alas, Mirrors' pout grew to such an extent that it threatened to devour the very soul of all humanity. Sylvan knew that if she did not quickly defeat the mighty sulk, all of the Mart of Walls would soon be consumed by the squeaking frustration.

Fortunately, the cashier broke through the unmerited but wholly powerful angst, speaking forth and saying, "Ma'am, you're next."

"Yay!" The danger shattered into a thousand shards of joy as Mirrors made to pay for the tastiness of Kool-Aid.

Thus, the Kool-Aid thusly paid for, the all-powerful and enchanting Mirrors, linking arms with the conniving but nonetheless awesome Sylvan, made her way from the Mart of Walls, thus beginning her journey of return… thusly.

Journey forth, Mirrors! Thou art courageous! Thy might isth unmatched! Thou must beginneth thy battle against the pains of thirst! Thou shalt prevail! Thou shalt conquer thy - Ah, fuck this shit! Go make your damn Kool-Aid, ho!

Sylvan turned to Mirrors, wondering aloud, "Why does the narrator sound like me?"

"I don't know," answered her friend, "but I bet she's a real bitch."

"Hey! And thus it came that the narrator began to hate Mirrors…" And Sylvan had become the more likely to survive this story.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever – now, where the fuck did I park?"

"Ah, hell! Get a panic button already!"

If this seems like a simple problem, then, well, you've obviously never misplaced your car in a Wal-mart parking lot in the middle of a weekday. In fact, it would normally have taken Sylvan and Mirrors the next four weeks to rediscover their vehicle. But as luck would have it, Mirrors had recently purchased a cherry antenna ornament, which drastically reduced the amount of time they spent wandering through the endless parking lot. Thanks to this adjustment, they found the small, red Corolla within a mere six hours.

Sylvan poked the suggestive ornament, fascinated by the said suggestiveness. "Why do you lie to people?"

Mirrors smacked the offender in the back of the head. "Stop fondling my cherries!" She jerked her car door open with a pointed glare and slid behind the steering wheel.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah – you're just jealous 'cause I still _have_ mine."

Mirrors looked up at her, hand resting beneath the button on the passenger-side door, poised to unlock the door or deny entry. "Do you wanna _walk_ home?"

"No, ma'am." Sylvan waited meekly for Mirrors to flip the button and then climbed into the car, slamming the door. She turned a blank look on her friend. "I love you – cherriless wench."

"You know what?" Mirrors began.

"_I demand to know which one of you damnable fools is responsible for this!_"

Mirrors and Sylvan whipped around in their seats to identify the Hell-sent voice that thundered behind them. "Christ on a cracker!" Mirrors shrieked.

"What the fuck?" Sylvan looked the unidentified visitor up and down, then clutched her sides, tears streaming down her cheeks as she laughed uncontrollably. "That's some _shit_, man! Mirrors! look what you did to my favorite anti-hero!"

The pale-faced, would-be stranger glowered at her over her headrest, his reddish eyes glinting with rage. Long, straight hair hung in his face, parted by the points of ears. With his head brushing the ceiling of the car even as he sat, he would have been threatening – if not for the distinctly magenta coloring of his hair. Magus the Dark Lord was far less fear-inducing as Magus the Fairy Queen.

"Regardless of my appearance, I can still kill you," the former prince of Zeal growled.

Sylvan stared back at him, undaunted. "Save it, Strawberry Shortcake."

The air inside the car changed to ice, a darkness engulfing the parking lot. Magus's eyes turned to pools of fire, the dark Zealan chants rolling forth from his mouth like crashing thunder. Blackness consumed the car, blotting out the sun.

"Hey, hey, hey, not in the car." Mirrors placed an arm between the two.

The dark words died on the pinkified sorcerer's lips, the darkness evaporating instantly. A sense of peace returned to the parking lot, albeit a fragile one. "Fine. Now, which of you is responsible?"

Mirrors raised a hand guiltily. "My bad, dawg, my bad."  
Magus's eye twitched visibly. "Fix it before I paint the streets with your blood."

"Hey," Sylvan chimed in, "don't sweat it man. We'll fix you up. No need for you to be playing with any more red hues."

The Dark Lord turned his attention back to the blonde, glaring more through her than at her. "I'm already hating your very soul."

"Yay! Mirrors, he's exactly how I thought he would be!"

"Yeah, well, we better get Princess over here out of the public eye before he makes headlines." Mirrors turned the key in the ignition and shifted the gears.

Magus loomed over her, eyes flashing with rage. Ignoring him, the dark-haired, broke child hit the accelerator, sending her would be intimidator flying into the backseat. "So, yeah, buckle up, biotch. Homeward!"

"Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!" Sylvan was whirling about in a rolly chair, hair flying about her face in a blonde cyclone. She was chattering in a way that reminded of a child suffering from ADHD. "Mirrors! We gotta call Abbie. We have _got_ to call Abbie! I mean, we can't not call Abbie. It's Abbie! Abbie has to be in on this!"

"Alright, I heard you!" Mirrors snapped. Sylvan had been going on like that for nearly twenty minutes, without so much as stopping to breathe. Mirrors would have liked to demand when Hungarians had evolved beyond the possibility of asphyxiation, but she settled for a "Call Abbie, _nigga_!"

Sylvan paused thoughtfully, pulling at her gold-tinged hair and examining her yellowish complexion. "Hmph." She rubbed at her arm enthusiastically, as if expecting the deep tan to rub away, even throwing in a puzzled look when nothing changed, just for show. "I'm a yellow nigga!"

Mirrors turned away, shielding her face with a hand. "Magus! You, you need to come get your friend. Go get your Slav."

Magus huffed irritably, rolling his eyes in the direction of the aforementioned Slav. He sat on the couch and had been previously glaring at the deep magenta cloak in his hands. "I refuse to claim that _creature_."

Sylvan gasped and pointed an accusatory finger in the direction of the sorcerer, as she spun in her seat. "Magus is racist against Eurasians!"

"Sylvan!" Mirrors cut in. "Will you hurry the fuck up and call Abbie? Jesus! My nerves bad."

The blonde halted the spinning of her chair, whipping out her cell phone and dialing rapidly. "Hey! Come over!" There was a long pause, accented by an inattentive expression. "Because Mirrors' nerves are bad and we gotta show you something!" Another pause and Sylvan looked offended. She huffed, "I didn't do anything to make her nerves bad! Well, maybe a little, but that's not the point! Now, listen! Mirrors was fighting with her printer this morning and… Are you there? Abbie?" The blonde looked down at her cell phone. Her eyebrows knit into a scowl and her lips twisted into a disgusted sneer. "Fucking Cingular!"

Bolting out of her chair, the Slav made her way out the front door. The obscenities directed at the faceless demons of her cell phone company continued for several more minutes, punctuated periodically by the occasional stomping.

Magus peered out the window cautiously, as if he were observing some dangerous beast. He might as well have been. "The hell was all that about?" he asked his remaining… "benefactor."

"Cell phone signal," Mirrors answered. "It blows dogs for quarters."

The Dark Lord made a very unbecoming face, as if the concept left a bad taste in his mouth as well as stung his eyes. "I could have done without that image."

"No one told your pasty white ass to picture that. See there? Your mind in the gutter."

Magus bristled at the crass accusation. "You're the one who said it!"

"Yeah, yeah, somebody doesn't get metaphors."

Sylvan poked her head in, anxious to stir up more aggravation. Most people would interpret her apparent short attention span as simple. Those who knew better realized she did it on purpose. "What metaphors? Metaphors're cool."

"Magus over here got a dirty mind!"

"I do not!" The Dark Lord was beyond indignant. "You're the one who brought up canine prostitution!"

Sylvan threw a glance between both of them. Dog sex was obviously too much for even her. She abandoned the airhead act instantly, folding her arms sternly across her chest. "Okay, you two aren't allowed to be alone together _anymore_."

"Aww, I'm sad," pouted Mirrors.

"I don't think I should be allowed around either of you," Magus interjected.

Sylvan discarded her temporary, moderate maturity once more, grinning like a maniac. "But then you'd be pink forever, and I'd take pictures and sell 'em on eBay." She fumbled for her digital camera.

Fortunately, the writer saw fit for Absentia to bust in just then, having reached Mirrors' home with unprecedented speed, and they were saved. The skinny brunette stood in the doorway, short brown hair flying about her face as she snapped her head from side to side in pursuit of her latest victim. Most wouldn't consider a small, white female of indeterminate ethnic heritage to be much of a threat, but her aura held an air of insanity that rivaled that of the Unabomber. In a strange world, in a strange house, surrounded by strange women, Magus really should have been afraid. "This I gotta see! Where is he?"

Sylvan pointed accusingly at the sad sight of a great sorcerer reduced to Kirby coloring. He stared at the newcomer, maintaining his grip on his pride with a disdainful sneer. The others may have been daunted, if they could muster fear of anything that could be described as "rosebud."

Absentia approached him dutifully, looking him up and down with a sharp eye. Stroking her chin speculatively, she passed her final judgment. "Oh, you poor, pink bastard."

"Now, you…" the Dark Lord began.

"It's like a little, pink pig!" And, now, the dam broke.

Mirrors chimed in without missing a beat, seeing fit to imitate _Deliverance_. "Ah'll make yew shqueal lahke a piggeh."

"Dun-a-dun-dun dun-dun dun-dun!" Absentia replied in a banjo tune, strumming her fingers over the imaginary strings.

"Yew got a purty mouth…" The insanity poured on, fueled by the half-crazed minds of two girls who'd spent most of their childhoods frolicking in the dangerous realms of role play and superhero cartoons.

Sylvan could feel the Dark Matter crackling somewhere in the magical plane – not that she had any psychic abilities, but write Magus enough, and you just kind of know. She also knew that as cool as it would be to see that spell, she wouldn't want to explain it to authorities – if they lived long enough for her to explain. "Hey, guys, maybe we should try to fix his coloring before he blows us all up, huh?"

Absentia dropped the non-existent instrument and tilted her head thoughtfully to the side. It wasn't necessary to know the brunette to understand that something approaching blackmail was crossing her mind. "But, if he blows us all up, he won't be able to fix his coloring, will he?" There was a wicked flash in her dark eyes.

Magus snapped around to face the conspirator. "_What?_"

"Oh, that's right," Sylvan mused. "Since we're the only ones who know how it happened, no one else can fix it. He'll be _stuck_ here, too."

"Oh, you can't be serious." Magus looked over the three adolescent females before him, finding himself surrounded by sly smiles. "Son of a bitch!"

Mirrors smirked. "He know he _luv_ us."

"Like a rash."

"Well, did you have fun _getting_ the rash?"

Abbie brightened, some of Sylvan's previous giddiness making its way to her head. "Should we glomp him?"

"No, not yet," Sylvan answered. "We have to establish just how much he needs us first. Now, what to do with the pinkness?"

Mirrors jumped up and down with more excitement than she typically mustered, waving her arms. "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! I know! Kool-Aid!"

Sylvan gasped. "That's right! We have blue Kool-Aid! That bitch'll stain _anything_!"  
Absentia raised a finger into the air, calling out triumphantly, "On to the bathtub!"

Magus raised an eyebrow with a sort of quizzical concern. "What?"

Mirrors, naturally, was less than pleased with the idea of a blue bathtub, but there was no way the trio would have such luck as to have the sorcerer cooperate over a sink. She would just have to establish that it was someone else's problem. "I ain't cleanin' up _shit_!" she sang, heading into the kitchen to prepare the solution. "Not a goddam _thing_!"

Meanwhile, Abbie and Sylvan tackled the difficult task of ushering a very unwilling Dark Lord into the bathroom. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Magus spat.

"Do you _wanna_ stay the color of a watermelon lollipop?" demanded Sylvan.

Magus hit the tile floor hard, a Slav and a self-proclaimed ethnic mutt spilling into his lap. He glowered down at the two as both wrapped arms about his neck and nuzzled him in an overly familiar fashion. "And how are you planning to fix it?" he demanded, disgusted with the unwarranted display of affection.

Sylvan grinned up at him, eyes flashing wickedly. "With the magic of Kool-Aid."

"I don't much trust your magical – whatever." He folded his arms resolutely across his chest, emitting all the vibes of a challenge that a man who'd so unceremoniously fallen on his rose-tinted ass could muster.

"Oh, ye of little faith." The blonde got to her feet slowly, straightening her hair and clothing. "I assure you, Kool-Aid is quite an astonishing substance, as any broke teenager knows. We've got you covered, man. Quick, Abbie! Get his shirt!"

Absentia pounced on him with an enthusiasm that only a single, young woman who suddenly found herself responsible for an attractive, legendary sorcerer could muster. The poor Dark Lord never had a chance; if he had even found the time to struggle, he would have nothing left but shreds of cloth. Besides, Magus found it more dignified to give up the less than flattering article of clothing.

Waving the shirt with more triumph than Magus thought was merited, Abbie leaped back from harm's theoretical arm-length and took a moment to examine her captive. "You know, Sylvan, it's really not fair. Why can't guys in the _real_ world be like this? You know, without all the fluffy coloring."

"I don't know," Sylvan mused. "The pink is starting to grow on me. I mean, look at him! He's like a naughty valentine!"

"Should we open him? Maybe there's chocolate inside."

"My pants remain on, or I melt your faces off," Magus stated flatly.

"Oh, my God!" Abbie gasped. "I meant like an autopsy. Sheesh, Mirrors is right; his mind is in the gutter! I swear it doesn't matter where guys are from or how grouchy or pink their asses are. They're all alike – one-track mind! One-fucking-track mind! It's unbelievable! What a bunch of sex fiends! Magus is such a pervert. Here we are trying to help him, and he's over here trying to take advantage of us. We don't need to see that little thing!"

Sylvan regarded her friend silently, enduring the rant with only the slightest twitch of a smile until the opportune moment. Abbie had to breathe eventually. And as soon as she did – "You are so full of shit," she broke in finally.

Absentia stomped her foot, scowling. "Yeah, but he didn't need to know that!" she huffed. "Jeez, sell me out, why don'tcha!"

"Well, if you wanna keep aggravating him, be my guest. I personally find face melting hilarious, provided it isn't mine."

"Hey, Sylvan! Remember that time we threw acid in the faces of those elderly people…"

Magus, meanwhile, sat in an unusual state of speechlessness. "You… _people_!" he finally managed, beyond incredulous. "What sort of idiotic asylum did you all escape from?"

"Oh, we didn't escape," answered Sylvan. "We're still in the asylum. We just ate the other occupants."

"I suppose it's just as well that I never put cannibalism past you three."

"What? You _three_?" Mirrors stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other clutching the handle of a pot. "What do I have to do with this? I'm not a cannibal; depends on what type of meat we're partaking of…"

"Oh, yay!" Sylvan jumped up from the floor, dragging Abbie up with her. "Kool-Aid's ready!"

"Mmmh… Haitian… That's a piece of pie I'd like to sample…" Mirrors stood, enraptured by her fantasies of dark-skinned islanders.

Abbie giggled. "Ah, mattress meat, but Irish is _so_ much better." She fell silent as well, a slight smile upturning one corner of her mouth.

Magus rose carefully, brushing his hair back from his face. His eyes darted back and forth warily between the two, his eyebrows knitting. "We've lost them, haven't we?"

"Wait, wait, wait." Sylvan raised her hand, counting down from five. "Three, two, one…"

"So, anyway, we have some work to do." Mirrors snapped back to life in an instant. "Lookatcha, lollygaggin'."

"Commence the shampooing!" Abbie commanded.

"Sorcerer in the tub!" Sylvan tackled Magus about the waist, toppling with him into the bathtub in a mass of flailing limbs. "Ow, the bruising!"

A mighty cry echoed throughout the bathroom – or at least what was theoretically intended to be. Abbie launched herself over the edge of the tub, landing on top of Sylvan and quite possibly breaking the sorcerer's ribcage.

Magus gasped, the wind forced from his lungs. "I'll… kill you…" he rasped. But therein lay the tragedy. Spells require immense concentration, correct gesticulation, and the proper incantations. None of these requirements can typically be met while lying crushed beneath nearly two hundred and fifty pounds of female.

"Quick, Mirrors! Get him while he's down!" Abbie shrieked.

The rush of liquid pouring into the tub filled the air. Scrambling and cursing immediately followed after, punctuated by the clanging of a pot. Enraged cries echoed though the house, a tremendous heat blowing through the air vents, and then a tremendous crackling.

And the scene goes silent and black…


End file.
